


I Look for You to Light my Heart

by Morwen_Maranwe



Series: I'm a Flame and You're my Fire [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Age Play, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Drama, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Drug Use, M/M, Rimming, Smut, Soft Toys, Spanking, exploring relationship boundaries, gratuitous use of pet names, mentions of past child abuse and neglect and abandonment, older/younger, talk of past John/Mary relationship, talk of past inappropriate student/teacher realtionship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morwen_Maranwe/pseuds/Morwen_Maranwe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are living in London together, away from all of the troubles they faced while Sherlock was in school and John was married.  But just because they can be together now doesn't mean that everything is perfect.  They are still learning each other and themselves in this new, exciting relationship they are building, and things don't always go as smoothly as John wants them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the AU of my multi-chapter story "The Burning Life", and is the first after the end of that fic. If you have not read "The Burning Life" first, this whole fic is a big spoiler for that novel. I guess you don't have to read it, though. If you don't, here are the only things you need to know:
> 
> 1\. John was previously Sherlock’s high school teacher and they are in an established relationship.  
> 2\. John is in his mid-30’s and Sherlock is 16 (this may be considered underage in some countries, so if this triggers you please don’t read!).  
> 3\. There are mentions of past physical child abuse, neglect, and abandonment (not having to do with John and Sherlock’s relationship, though it does involve Sherlock). If this triggers you, do not read. 
> 
> Beta'd by beautifully_in_pain and Indelible_Ink. Title is taken from the Blue October song "Ugly Side"

Living with Sherlock in London is wondrous and magical.  It’s everything John had hoped for, everything he thought it would be. 

Being Sherlock’s Daddy in London is the most endearing, heartwarming, thrilling, and fun thing that John has ever done. 

It is awkward when they first move in with one another because they are still learning how to play together, how to even _be_ with each other without the shadow of John’s soon-to-be-ex-wife and the need to hide their relationship hanging over them.  It takes some time for them to realise that they can be themselves in London together, while at the same time John can also be Sherlock’s Daddy.  They don’t play out in public; Sherlock isn’t comfortable with that and, frankly, neither is John.  However, the thrill of it is still there; John can feel it in the small, everyday things that they do.  Like when he picks up ridiculously-flavoured ice creams at the Baskin Robbins down Baker Street to bring home to Sherlock when he has been good.  Or when he takes Sherlock to visit the Cutty Sark in Greenwich simply so that John can see the look of childlike wonder on Sherlock’s face as the younger male wanders about the British clipper ship.  There is a certain deliciously dark undercurrent to the things that they do, to the way in which they go about their lives now, that sometimes leaves little tendrils of arousal twisting deep in John’s gut.

Otherwise, it surprises John how easily they fall into a routine in London: Sherlock prepares himself for university while John finds work at a surgery.  It feels right, simple, as if they should have been doing this all along.  There is none of the discomfort that John had feared Sherlock might experience, being in an unfamiliar city, living with his first serious relationship at such a young age, so soon after meeting each other.  In fact, Sherlock seems to be more surprised that this is all actually happening in the first place and that it isn’t some cruel dream, meant to tease or torment him.  John has caught Sherlock on several nights staring at him from one of the mismatched chairs that Mrs. Hudson had left in the sitting room (the leather one which Sherlock had commandeered for his own), watching as John cooks dinner or putters around cleaning or doing some other utterly domestic chore.  The look on his face tells John that he is silently wishing very hard that all of this won’t just disappear come morning.  At moments like these, John usually ends up dropping whatever he is doing and going over to kiss the young man, soft and full of promise, telling him without words that he isn’t going anywhere.  Silently telling him that this is, indeed, very real.

It happens at other times, too, while they are out in public together, doing the shopping or just happily spending time with one another out in London.  Those little instances where Sherlock seems surprised that this is his life now, stunned that John is his finally and they are together at last, no more hiding.  Sherlock will be grabbing something off of the high shelf for him at Tesco’s (because he has had another growth spurt recently, leaving him slightly taller than John now, just on the right side of helpfully lanky), or walking beside John along the pavement, close enough to hold his hand.  John just can’t help himself at moments like these.  He will lean in close, press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek or run a hand through his hair, slipping his arm around Sherlock’s slim waist and tucking Sherlock up close against his body. 

Sherlock always goes still in these moments, his eyes going wide for a second and his body going stiff until he remembers that this is okay now.  They can do this and not worry about someone seeing them.  It is not like before, when Sherlock was still his student and John was so worried about them getting caught.  Sherlock can melt against John’s body without the worry that they are doing something illegal or illicit.  He can even put his own arm around John now, too, and he does so with a small amount of shyness.  John loves watching Sherlock at times like this.  He loves watching Sherlock in all of the sweet awkwardness of his first relationship, the bashfulness and questioning gazes he gives John while they are in public that seems reminiscent of the beginning of their relationship all over again, when Sherlock was all innocence and naivety.  It makes Sherlock seem young and inexperienced, and it makes John think of his little boy, and it makes him hard.  John wants to fuck Sherlock constantly when they first move to London, and he curses the busy work schedule that he has acquired at his new job.  Whenever he can, he’s afraid that he takes shameless advantage of the fact that they have their own flat, with a nice bed and a decent sized bathtub, and a landlady who is slightly hard of hearing and prone to heavy use of herbal soothers on certain nights of the week.

John will be the first to admit that he readily goes a bit overboard with the shopping for their scenes when they first move into the flat together.  It is mostly small, domestic things.  Things that they can sometimes, almost, pretend aren’t even for scenes.  Still, John takes it as a good sign: where he had been embarrassed to buy props for their games before, he is coming to find it slightly easier to indulge, now that it is just he and Sherlock all of the time.  Although the teen still sometimes struggles with communicating to John what he wants or needs when they scene, Sherlock has also gotten more comfortable telling John what he likes and dislikes while they play.  That makes it somewhat easier to shop for scenes, too.  There is a constant supply of Mr. Matey bubble bath by the tub in the loo, the peg-leg pirate smiling happily from his perch on the rim of the porcelain.  Now that John knows a little bit more about the types of things Sherlock is more likely to eat, and how to get him to finish meals, there are certain foods Sherlock is more prone to accepting when he is “little” that fill the shelves of the fridge.  There are books that he loves to have read to him which fill the bookcase in the sitting room.  There are even movies that will hold his interest and that he will sit through while John cooks him a meal or cuddles with him on the sofa, holding his little boy.  There is also a shameful supply of sweets when they first move into 221b (although the doctor in John cringes at the thought) because the man just can’t help spoiling his little one.

_Yes_ , John thinks one night as he holds Sherlock after the brunet slowly drifts off to sleep in his arms, drowsy from the orgasm John has slowly coaxed out of him after hours of play.  _London is definitely good for us._ He draws calloused fingertips tenderly over curly, sweaty fringe, his touch barely even there.  _Good for_ him, John rectifies with a content smile, looking down at the peaceful, sleepy face wedged between his shoulder and the pillow, snuffling softly _._

*

The first few days they are in London, Sherlock scarpers off to walk the streets by himself.  It is before his term at university starts, and so, while John is busy working, Sherlock fills his days with wandering the city and getting to know the place.  He is usually gone for most of the day, even well into the night.  John has stopped worrying so much about him when he doesn’t see him or hear from him for 18 hours straight.  He knows that Sherlock still needs to have that sense of independence, and John could never keep him from doing anything he set his mind to, anyways.  Besides, he knows that Sherlock would be bored senseless waiting all day at the flat for John to finish work.  So John finds it is easier not to fight Sherlock when he wants to leave the flat before the sun comes up and stay out until well past midnight.  John has to admit that Sherlock is getting to know the city intimately well.

Sherlock comes home one evening and proclaims proudly that he has found the best Italian restaurant in all of London.  John thinks that’s a pretty tall order to fill, but he readily agrees to check it out with Sherlock. When Sherlock invites John out to dinner later on in the week and says that it is "his treat", John wants to make a joke about Sherlock saving up enough of his allowance from Mycroft for a fancy dinner. He refrains, though barely. He isn’t a complete idiot, like Sherlock assumes. But at the restaurant, when the proprietor happily comes up to them and exclaims jovially that their meal will be on the house for the person who saved him from a murder conviction, John begins to understand how Sherlock wants his career as a consulting detective to move forward.

When Angelo says that he will get a candle for the table (“more romantic,” he whispers to John with a wink) John's initial reaction is to deny his relationship to Sherlock. He feels a strange, strong jolt of fear as he stands in that restaurant, around dozens of people just waiting to judge them.  He can’t forget that, not only is he the same sex as Sherlock, but he is nearly a good twenty years older, too, and there is no denying the fact that Sherlock still looks to be only 14 years old sometimes. He would hate to see what they would look like to a passerby.  Angelo, though, doesn’t seem concerned by this at all and insists on the candle.  John once again becomes aware, just like with Mrs. Hudson when he first met her, that there are some people who will not judge him for his relationship with Sherlock after all. It is a strange thought after spending so long trying to hide their feelings for one another from the outside world.

After the table (“best one in the house,” Angelo states proudly) and the candle are sorted, John and Sherlock sit down to what can only be called a very intimate date.  The lighting throughout the rest of the restaurant is dim and warm, and they are seated next to each other on adjoining corners of the table, rather than across from one another.  Angelo insists on preparing his favourite dish personally, and John has to wonder what exactly Sherlock did for this man in the few days that they have been in the city.  It seems that the boy is working rather fast to make a reputation for himself.

John tries not to be hurt that Sherlock is doing all of this without him, but the job he found at a local clinic is keeping him very busy.  They were short-staffed and had hired John on almost immediately, wanting him to cover extra shifts to make up for their patient-load.  John had agreed because he knew that he and Sherlock would need the money.  However, he didn’t anticipate being too busy for Sherlock.  He can see why Sherlock has taken to wandering London for hours at a time.  John figures it must give him something to do.

John pulls himself from his thoughts as Sherlock talks animatedly about a group of homeless people he has made the acquaintance of over the past few days, going on about the part of the city they stay in.  John listens to everything Sherlock says, looking at the teen and being sure to pay extra attention to him.  He feels badly for ignoring Sherlock recently, and he promises himself to make it up to the brunet, starting now, with the dinner they are sharing together.

When the food comes, John readily agrees that it is the best Italian he has ever had.

*

To celebrate moving in together, John decides one day that he wants to get Sherlock something special.  He looks around at their flat, finally unpacked (even though one would never think it, with all of the mess that Sherlock has everywhere which John can’t ever do a thing with).  His eyes land on Dr. Barium, the soft toy that John had bought Sherlock the very first time he was John’s little boy.  It is the only soft toy Sherlock has, and John thinks that should change soon.  He thinks it would be a very thoughtful gift, too—something sweet to show Sherlock just how special John thinks this new time he gets to spend with Sherlock in London is, and what it means for their relationship.

He finds the perfect gift one day when he stops by a shop as he is on his way home from the clinic after a 10 hour shift.  His eyes fall on it as he is searching the store for something that his little boy might like, and once he sees it he knows immediately that Sherlock will love it.  It is a stuffed [bee ](http://all-the-kinks.tumblr.com/post/131753286266)with fat, white wings sitting atop its round, plush body.  It has a large smile sewn on its sweet, cartoon-like face, and its legs are short little stumpy things that barely stick out from its plump black and yellow body.  He buys it, not even thinking twice, and takes the tube all the way back to Baker Street with the stuffed bee sitting in his lap, its smiling face sticking out of the bag and grinning up at him happily.

When he gets back to the flat, though, he finds Sherlock sulking on the sofa in a rotten mood, and he knows that it has been a bad day for the teenage genius.  John’s good mood, which had kicked into an even higher gear as he had ascended the stairs, trickles away as he throws open the door to the flat and finds Sherlock curled on their sofa, knees drawn to this chest, face pressed against the back cushions.  John’s smile instantly withers on his face, a deep frown replacing it as he closes the door to the flat with a soft click and walks over to the surly teen. 

He sits on the edge of the sofa next to Sherlock, placing his bag on the coffee table.  He is careful not to touch Sherlock because he isn’t sure how it will be received at the moment.  Sometimes Sherlock desperately wants John’s comfort and John’s support, and other times Sherlock finds John’s care to be patronising and even smothering.  John has learned that it is in his best interest to figure out what Sherlock’s moods are caused by and the safest route to proceed before he does or says anything, though he is pretty sure he knows what has caused this particular downward spiral.

Sherlock has been spending the small time he has left before his university term begins at New Scotland Yard, trying to convince detectives down at the station to allow him access to some of the smaller, less important cases.  Sherlock’s not an idiot—he knows that he won’t be granted access to anything vital right from the start, even if he is positive there is more intelligence in his small toe than in some of the officers combined.  He has yet to find anyone willing to take him seriously, though, no matter how many “helpful hints” he offers about cases in the news, and John isn’t really surprised by that fact.  More often than not, the officers down at the Yard can be rather blunt—which is fine.  God knows Sherlock is not prone to sugar-coating the things he says, either.  But sometimes “blunt” tends to lead the way to “unnecessarily rude”.  Sherlock won’t ever tell John that the things the officers say bother him, but John knows.  He can see it in the way Sherlock acts when he gets back to the flat after another fruitless venture to the Yard.  He can see it in the indifferent mask that slips over Sherlock’s face the few times John has accompanied Sherlock to the Met and seen some of those officers.  He wishes there is something he can do for Sherlock, something that can make the younger man feel better.  Every time John asks, though, Sherlock only brushes him off.

However, when John enters the flat and takes a seat next to him on the sofa, there is no brushing off Sherlock’s mood then.

“What’s wrong, love?” John asks him tenderly, sitting close but mindful to keep his hands to himself for the moment, despite how hard it is when all he wants to do is run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and stroke his cheek.

Sherlock’s reply is mumbled into the cushions on the back of the sofa.  He doesn’t even turn his head to look at John, making it clear that any touch from John will be greatly unappreciated at the moment.  “Nothing.”

John holds back a sigh.  He knows getting frustrated with Sherlock won’t accomplish anything, but he wishes that Sherlock wouldn’t do this—the younger man is clearly upset, and if he would just let John help him through it, help him deal with the emotions he is no doubt having trouble processing, things would be so much easier.  “It’s not ‘nothing’,” John states gently.  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

It seems Sherlock wants to be stubborn today, though.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Baby,” John says, his voice softening.  “Come tell Daddy what’s wrong.  Please?”  He knows it’s a cheap shot, using Sherlock’s already compromised mental state to push him into his headspace in order to get him to relent to John, but the man knows that Sherlock won’t let John take care of him any other way.

It works.  John can see Sherlock’s body calm slightly, muscles unclenching and relaxing.  He stretches his legs out, uncurling them from his chest so that he doesn’t look quite so defensive anymore.  He turns his head slightly to look at John, his lovet eyes filled with pain and sadness, and he sighs.  “I went down to the Yard again,” Sherlock begins, voice hesitant.  “They were particularly simpleminded and rude today, as if their idiocy were my fault.”  He snorts delicately at the very thought and the corners of his mouth turn up in wry mirth, a sharp edge to it that is biting and painful for John to look at because he can see the truth hiding behind it, the hurt.

“Did someone say something to you?” John asks immediately, frowning down at him.

“They say many things, John, most of which aren’t worth the effort required to speak them,” Sherlock answers back without missing a beat, his clear eyes unwaveringly on John’s.

John’s frown deepens.  Sherlock is evading and the doctor knows it.  “That’s not what I mean.”

Sherlock lets out a small huff of air, giving in because he knows John will be relentless in his pursuit of this, and lets his eyes fall towards the cushions of the sofa, away from John.  “Yes,” he finally answers, voice quiet.

John exhales, upset, and he’ll readily admit that a small part of it is aimed at Sherlock.  Of course he’s primarily angry that those fucking tossers down at the Met treat Sherlock this way, and he’s upset that no one down there can see how amazing and brilliant the teen is.  But he knows that there isn’t really much he can do about that, short of storming down there and giving them a piece of his mind, like some ridiculously over-protective mother-hen.  Jesus, he can only imagine how that would go over with Sherlock.  But he’d be lying if he said that a part of him isn’t also frustrated that Sherlock still insists on trying to keep John at arm’s length about things like this.  He is hurt at the fact that, when Sherlock has a problem or feels badly, his first instinct isn’t to come to John to feel better, but to run away and hide by himself.  John is saddened by the thought that, even now, trying to get Sherlock to talk to him and confide in him, trying to get Sherlock to let John comfort him, is like pulling teeth.

It shouldn’t be like this between them, he knows.  John should be the one Sherlock runs to, not the one Sherlock tries to hide himself from.  John wants to be the one that makes everything better for Sherlock, the one who takes away all of the pain, no matter how Sherlock needs that to be done.  If he needs a spanking, or a rough hand during sex, or if he just wants to call John “Daddy” and be pampered for the day, then it’s all fine.  It will always be fine.  Even if all Sherlock wants is for John to hold him close while he tells John about how he is feeling.  John will do all of that.  Gladly.

He moves closer to Sherlock on the sofa, leaning down over the brunet and stretching out over his long body to give him a kiss on the cheek.  “You can’t keep doing this, baby,” John whispers against his temple as he moves his lips to nuzzle against Sherlock’s face.  “You told me that all of this was fine, that what we’re doing when we’re together is nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, face flaming.  He means all of the times that they have played, all the times that Sherlock has been his little boy, but he can’t seem to make his mouth say the words.  He knows he doesn’t have to explain it in any more detail, though, because Sherlock understands.  Sherlock always understands what John is trying to say, even when John is buggering it up completely.  So John forges on, giving him another kiss that gets lost in his hairline.  “I want to take care of you but you keep holding back from me.  I can feel it.  It’s driving us both up the wall and you know it.” 

John knows that Sherlock is nervous and scared of giving up control of himself to someone else, even though he doesn’t even realise it.  It is achingly obvious, knowing the kind of past that Sherlock had, but John wants Sherlock to understand that someone who truly loves him can cherish him and care for him deeply, properly, and help him repair years of neglect, abandonment, and loneliness from his childhood.

Sherlock finally turns his head to peer up at John from his position on the sofa, and he looks repentant and young.  “I know.  I’m sorry that I can’t…I try to be more open with you, I really do.  It may not seem like it, but I promise, I do.  It’s just, I had no one who bothered to care how I was feeling before you, and so I just tried not to feel anything at all, to make it easier for myself.  It’s hard to change that, now, when I’ve had such tight control over my emotions for so long…” he trails off, his voice catching.  His eyes shine dangerously in the low light of their sitting room and John hurries to scoop him up in his arms, pressing Sherlock’s face into his shoulder and holding it there.  He lets Sherlock cling to him for a few moments before he feels like they’ve had enough seriousness for the day; he had been happy and excited when he had come home, eager to give his little boy the present he had bought him.

John pulls away from Sherlock, moving the lanky teen around until Sherlock is seated comfortably in John’s lap, his legs straddling John’s thigh and his long arms hanging over John’s shoulders.  He is almost a head taller than John this way, and the older man enjoys looking up at him and tilting his face up to steal kisses as he tells Sherlock, “I got you a present, sweetheart, for being such a good boy for Daddy recently.  I know it’s been hard, moving to a new place and having so many things change, but I’m so proud of you.  I love you.  I just wanted you to know that.”

Sherlock lights up at the mention of a present from his Daddy, just like John knew he would.  John reaches over to the coffee table awkwardly, careful not to upset the squirming pile of teenage Sherlock in his lap.  He opens it one-handed, drawing out the contents inside, and presents it to Sherlock proudly, not able to keep the stupid, goofy smile off of his face, although the edges of it are curbed by a sudden nervousness.  He doesn’t know if it will ever stop being nerve-wracking, buying gifts like this for his very adult, very temperamental, very _tetchy_ lover.

Sherlock, though, only spends a moment taking in the sight of his new toy before a grin of epic proportions splits his face.  It crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes which still has the smoothness of youth, and a childlike giggle bubbles out of him, rich and velvety in his deep voice.  God, John loves being the one who makes him produce that sound.  Sherlock takes the bee in his hands and jiggles it around, making its floppy legs dance ridiculously.  His laughter grows.

“Do you like it, baby?” John asks, adoring the sight of Sherlock in his lap, enjoying his new toy.

“It’s perfect,” Sherlock says without a trace of derision.  “Thank you, Daddy,” he tells John, blushing lightly as he drops his eyes down to his lap and looks at John from under hooded lashes.  “I love it.”

John’s heart flutters and his stomach clenches, and his cock twitches under Sherlock’s arse.  “That’s good, darling.  I’m so glad you like your new bee,” he says, letting his hands run over Sherlock’s sides and across his belly.  They slide down to his thighs, caressing them through his trousers.  He leans forward to press his lips to Sherlock’s neck, then to his chin.  He trails kisses all along every inch of skin he can reach, trapping Sherlock’s hands and his new toy between them in the process.  “What do you say we go show him the bedroom, hmm?”

Sherlock gasps as John’s mouth finds a particularly sensitive patch of skin on his neck and works at it wetly, his arse grinding down against John’s rapidly filling cock.  He groans at the feeling and lifts Sherlock off his lap.  Setting him down on the floor and standing quickly, he takes Sherlock by the hand and pulls him into their bedroom before Sherlock can even utter a word. 

Once they are in the room, John takes Sherlock and sets him very carefully on their bed.  He knows that Sherlock can take a rough handling every now and then—knows that Sherlock prefers that, sometimes—but right now doesn’t seem to be one of those times.  He is biting his lip and blushing sweetly and not meeting John’s gaze—the perfect picture of impeccable innocence.  And John knows just how he wants to defile him.

He undresses Sherlock slowly but steadily, not allowing himself to get distracted by all of the beautiful strips of pale flesh that he uncovers as his hands glide over soft skin, letting Sherlock transfer his hold on the toy from one hand to the other as John goes about methodically disrobing him.  Then, when he has Sherlock naked against him, John lays Sherlock down on the bed and pulls Sherlock’s arms above his head, his hands clasped together as his fingers tangle in the wings of the bee, and spreads Sherlock’s thighs wide.  At the head of the bed, jumbled in amongst the pillows, Sherlock’s other soft toy lurks, its large, round bear head poking out from between crumpled sheets.

John thinks that their bed is entirely too crowded, now.

“How about we set Dr. Barium to the side for a bit?” he asks Sherlock, stretching out over him and reaching to grab the bear, digging it out from the depths of the blankets and placing it gently on his bedside table.

Sherlock tilts his head to watch John from his position, upside down.  He doesn’t move otherwise, though a small frown creases his young face.  “Now you’ve made Dr. Barium jealous,” he states rather ominously.

John tries to hide the roll of his eyes and his smile as he settles back down between Sherlock’s spread legs, his clothed body dragging along Sherlock’s naked one, making Sherlock’s breath hitch as he squirms against the sensation.  “Dr. Barium will just have to learn how to share.”

Sherlock smirks at him, turning his head to follow John’s movements.  “Is that a lesson you want me to learn, too?” he asks teasingly.

John wants to kiss that grin right off of Sherlock’s face, so he does, dipping his tongue in to taste Sherlock’s sharp words.  There are lots of lessons he would love to teach his little boy, but they can certainly start here if that is what Sherlock wants.  “Of course,” John says against Sherlock’s lips, biting at his mouth.  “Everyone needs to learn how to share their favourite things.”

Sherlock bucks up against him, and his knees come up to cradle John and pull him in tight.  His hands clench in John’s shirt and his fingers tangle in the material.  “What about daddies?” Sherlock asks, voice growing breathless against John’s mouth as the man kisses the air out of his lungs.  “Do daddies share their favourite things?”

John almost growls at the thought of what Sherlock is suggesting.  His arms wrap around Sherlock tighter, wedging them between Sherlock’s sinewy back and the mattress.  John presses Sherlock closer to him and kisses him harder, deeper.  “No,” he states when he releases Sherlock’s mouth, plump and red from John’s attentions.  “Some daddies get to be greedy.  They don’t ever share their things.”

John can feel Sherlock’s cock twitch between them at his words, and he wonders why he still has clothes on.  He pulls away from Sherlock and sits up on his knees in the bed, tugging off his trousers and pants and tossing them off to the side.  His button down shirt, though, he takes off carefully while Sherlock watches him curiously.  Once it is off, he slowly folds it with military precision, laying it down on the bed to Sherlock’s side so that he can be sure to get the corners and edges just right, every fold and crease meeting perfectly.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks him, propping himself up on his elbows to watch John with curious eyes.

“You think you have so much self-control over your emotions, over the way you act and behave?” John asks him as he slides his shirt up the mattress into the spot where he wants it, halfway up the bed.  He then pulls Sherlock up off of his back, flipping the boy over and putting him none too gently onto his hands and knees, hovering above John’s shirt, his face shoved inches from it.  “We’ll see about that,” he says lowly, voice a deep rumble as he stares appreciatively at Sherlock’s position, arse in the air, shoulders pressed low to the mattress, just barely managing not to brush it.  “I’m going to finger you open and then fuck you, just like this, and I want my shirt to look exactly as it does right now when I’m done with you, do you understand?  I don’t want a single crease in it, I don’t want it moved at all,” he orders, tone turning stern.  “If you touch it even a little bit, you’ll be punished.  All right?”

He hears Sherlock take in a ragged breath.

“Sherlock?” he asks, wanting confirmation for what he is planning on doing.

Sherlock wiggles in his grasp below John, an impatient, excited movement, his thighs quivering in what John has come to learn is eager anticipation.  “Yes, sir,” he answers on a shaky exhale, voice little more than a whisper.

“Good lad,” John tells him off-handedly, knowing that more praise or more attention will only put Sherlock further on edge.  That’s not what John wants from Sherlock right now.  He wants Sherlock focused, his attention on the lesson John is trying to teach him.  So instead, John takes his time getting the lube, leaving Sherlock kneeling in front of him, arse presented to him but ignored.  If Sherlock wants to pride himself on his control, then John will certainly do his best to test Sherlock and push him to his limits.  He’ll see how long Sherlock can really go without wanting to be looked at, without needing to be touched by his Daddy.  John slicks his fingers one by one, slowly, leisurely, not in any hurry, ignoring Sherlock right in front of him.  When he is done with that, he goes on to lubing up his half-hard cock, taking his time to tease and play with himself, not stopping until he is fully erect and Sherlock is making small whining noises and movements with his hips which are meant to draw John’s attention to him.  It is working; John’s cock has finished filling out not from his hand but from the completely wanton display Sherlock is making of himself.  Sherlock’s arms are spread out on either side of John’s folded shirt, one hand still clutching his bee, and his face is hanging dangerously low over the folded material.  He hasn’t yet moved the shirt, however, even though John doesn’t know how that’s possible.  He’s trembling and the movements he’s making are shamelessly lewd, trying to get John to respond to him.  John figures he should help the poor boy out unless he wants their little game to be over before it’s barely even begun.

Besides, he thinks he’s proven that Sherlock clearly can’t even last a few minutes without John touching him.  He decides to show Sherlock how weak his self-control really is.  “Do you want my fingers?” John asks him, leaning across Sherlock’s back and covering the length of him so that he can whisper in Sherlock’s ear, his hand slipping down Sherlock’s spine and in between his arse cheeks, though he doesn’t touch him _there_ yet.  He just teases along the soft fleshy outer areas.

“Yes,” Sherlock chokes out, nodding his head frantically against John’s cheek.

“You want them right there?” John asks teasingly, now tracing his wet fingers across Sherlock’s hole, pressing down softly to feel the tightness of the muscle, though not hard enough to penetrate.

Sherlock whimpers and wiggles his bum, trying to push back onto John’s finger.  “Yes, _please_ ,” he moans.

John chuckles and pulls his hand away as he sits back up, moving into a better position behind Sherlock, between his feet.  He starts by slipping one finger into Sherlock, opening him up slowly.  Sherlock’s hands clench in the bedsheets on either side of John’s shirt, not nearly close enough to disturb his button down.  John keeps one eye on his clothing and the other on Sherlock’s arse.  The shirt moves along with the sheets, riding on top of the bedclothes, but isn’t disturbed enough by the sudden movement to completely upset its placement.  It stays frustratingly folded to perfection.  John will just have to try harder.

Two fingers makes Sherlock drop his shoulders a bit lower, dangerously close to John’s shirt now, but the brunet seems to remember John’s warning last minute and raises himself back up incrementally, his arms and shoulders shaking slightly with the effort.  John decides to torture him a bit and locates the small bundle of nerves inside of him, swiping his fingers over and across it teasingly, causing Sherlock to cry out and bite his lip, making his hips buck forward and his shoulders to sag and droop.  His face drops closer to the mattress and John can see Sherlock’s hands and arms scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.  Sherlock tries to find a better grip on the bedclothes as John scissors his fingers, stretching him, pulling out and pushing back in, adding lube which dribbles down Sherlock’s perineum and John scoops back up with slick fingers.

When John pushes a third finger into Sherlock and reaches out to stroke his stiff cock at the exact same time, he knows he has pushed Sherlock past the last threshold of his control.  Sherlock cries out and jerks bodily, trying to stop himself, but the damage has been done—his hand has brushed along the edge of John’s shirt, rumpling the side of it.

John _tsks_ as he looks down at Sherlock, fingers still shoved in his arse.  “Look at that, you naughty thing.  I knew you weren’t as restrained as you want everyone to think you are.  Couldn’t even last a few minutes, could you?  You’ll have to be punished now, you know.  How many do you want, then?” he asks and pauses for a moment, giving Sherlock the chance to answer him.  Sherlock, though, has let his head and shoulders finally drop down to the bed, giving up trying to control his body now that he has lost the game.  He is too busy trying to remember how to breathe to bother answering John’s question.  Sherlock won’t be let off the hook so easily, though.  John is going to teach him that he’ll have to tell John what he wants when they scene, even if it kills John to do so.  He’s let Sherlock get away with too much in the past.  Sherlock is a master at evading communication, and John is a master at enabling him.  Well, that’s over now.  John will make sure of it. 

“You’ll have to ask for them, baby,” John states succinctly.  “I know you want them.  Tell me how many you think you deserve, and ask me nicely for them.” 

John will show him, one way or another, that he will give himself up to John, no matter what.

In his hands, though, Sherlock shuffles about restlessly, tiny little movements that are strained and desperate.  “I—I don’t…” Sherlock’s voice tapers off into a wavering mess, his hips undulating as John’s fingers wiggle inside his hole and a high whine escapes his throat.  “I can’t think right now.  Don’t want to.  Everything’s gone a bit fuzzy.”

This is what John wanted, what John had been hoping for.  Every so often, John knows that Sherlock sinks so far into his headspace that he loses all ability and even all desire to focus and anticipate anything outside of their scene, in their normal lives.  Sherlock doesn’t think, his mind isn’t constantly racing like normal, he isn’t worrying or deducing or rationalising every thought that pops into his head. 

John smiles widely at Sherlock’s honest answer, pleased and proud.  “That’s perfectly fine, sweetheart.  That’s all you had to tell me.  You know I’m more than happy to take care of you and everything you need if you’re feeling like you can’t.” 

And that’s the honest truth, the heart of their little game.  It is what John loves most about dismantling Sherlock down to this level.  It’s not that John wants to break Sherlock’s will and make him something that he isn’t, or turn him into someone else, or make him completely dependent on John.  That isn’t it at all.  John just wants Sherlock to know that if he needs to fall apart, if Sherlock needs someone to help put him back together, John is more than willing to be that person.  Sherlock may not like people seeing him unable to think straight, or do something for himself, but John isn’t just anybody.  And he wants Sherlock to see this for himself.

“How about ten?” John asks him with a soothing voice, one hand running over the soft flesh of his bum, petting it.  “Does that sound good to you?”

Sherlock smiles softly at him, in something that closely resembles gratitude.  “Yes, sir.”

This is something else that John wants Sherlock to become familiar with—the fact that sometimes Sherlock doesn’t have to make all of the decisions.  They are a team now, after all.  John wants Sherlock to know that it is okay for him to rely on John to make decisions for him, as his partner and as his Daddy.  He can let John handle the big stuff and he can feel safe and secure knowing that John will always take care of things, no matter what. 

“You’ll need to ask me for them, baby, remember?  Ask Daddy nicely and you’ll get what you want.” 

Just because John will take care of Sherlock doesn’t mean he will spoil him every second of every day.  There are some lessons Sherlock still has to learn.  John is going to show Sherlock how much his control is worth.

Sherlock blushes a lovely shade of red.  “Please, Daddy, may I have ten spankings?”

John’s erection, which had flagged somewhat during the interim, surges to life at such sweet words said with such sinful intent.  He lets out a little grumble of pleasure.  “ _Perfect_ ,” he murmurs as he moves into a position behind Sherlock that will give him the space he needs to manoeuvre and still see all of Sherlock.  He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock finally and rubs both hands over Sherlock’s bare arse, the feel of the skin under his fingers so soft and plump that he nearly begins the spankings right then.  He wants to see Sherlock’s supple flesh pink and burning, marked.  He wants to sink his teeth, his fingernails, into the soft skin.  Anything that will leave a mark.  He wants Sherlock crying out and writhing, losing control, because of _him_.

John restrains himself, however, and instead says, “I want you to count them for me, Sherlock, all right?  And I’ll take a thank you after each one, as well.  Then you’re to ask me for the next one.  Is that clear?”  It’s a lot of directions, he knows, but it is the point he is still trying to prove: that Sherlock doesn’t have the restraint he thinks he does, that even simple instructions are too far out of his control to follow at times like these.

“Y-yes,” Sherlock stammers, gulping dryly.  John purses his lips at the answer, none too pleased with it, before Sherlock is mumbling out a corrected, “Yes, sir.”

He gives a small nod, satisfied, and then starts softly.  He begins by warming the skin up with nothing more than a slight smack, on the fleshy part of Sherlock’s arse where he knows the feeling is little more than a sting, a tease that will drive Sherlock wild.

“One,” Sherlock counts, his voice a discontent grumble at the softness of John’s hit, and John can barely hide his smirk.  “Can I have the next one, Daddy?”

The next hit is the same, on Sherlock’s other arse cheek, for balance.  John wants to be sure that the sensitive skin is somewhat ready for harsher hits, so he spanks Sherlock slightly harder on each cheek once more as Sherlock asks for each one before smacking him soundly on the fleshy round part of his arse.  The hit is so hard that it stings John’s hand and makes Sherlock gasp, his hands clenching in the sheets as he says the word, “Five,” on a sharp inhaled breath.  “Another, please, Daddy,” he begs, wiggling his bum, and John holds in a dark chuckle.

His next spank on the opposite cheek is hard, too, and he is sure to land it on the plump part of Sherlock’s bottom, where the skin is a nice pink colour from his warm-up.  When Sherlock is done counting and asking for his next one, John’s next hit lands on the sensitive part of his thigh, right under his buttocks, where his cheek meets the top of his leg.  John knows Sherlock is aroused enough that his endorphins are flowing and it doesn’t hurt so much as it stings and throbs in a pleasurable, warm kind of way.  He can see Sherlock’s cock jerk from the force of the hit as a sticky drop of precome leaks out of it and drips to the bed.

Sherlock moans as John rubs the reddened skin, soothing the sting away and feeling the warm flesh under his fingers, pressing back into John’s hand for the next one, impatient for it.

“You forgot to count it, sweetheart,” John reminds him, voice soft and slightly chastising, “and you didn’t ask for your next one.”

“Please, can I have another?” Sherlock asks, without counting the previous one.  John should do something about it; he should punish Sherlock, or at the very least point out Sherlock’s mistake, but he could care less at this point.  He gives Sherlock two more of the spankings at random intervals, both hard, just how he knows Sherlock likes them.  Sherlock asks for one of them but John doesn’t give him the chance to ask for the next, and he counts for one but not the other.  John doesn’t mind, and Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice anymore.  His cock is rock hard and swollen red, and the tip is wet with precome that drips in a sticky line every so often down to the bed.

When there is only one left, John grabs Sherlock’s cock and runs his hands up to the swollen testicles, hearing Sherlock moan.  John’s palm covers Sherlock’s tender bollocks while his fingers press into Sherlock’s perineum, massaging, sliding upwards and spreading apart to push open Sherlock’s cheeks so that John can have a view of his arsehole.  The reddened skin of Sherlock’s arse cheeks and thighs frames the untouched flesh of his hole and perineum, and John knows exactly where he wants his last spank to go.

“Hold yourself open for me, Sherlock, just like this,” John says, voice gone dark and husky, his free hand moving to position Sherlock and show him what to do.  “I’m going to spank your little hole.  If you’re good for me, Daddy will kiss it afterwards and make it feel better, all right?”

Sherlock’s breath has gone ragged and he spreads himself wide for John.  “Oh God, yes,” he whimpers, spreading his knees wider as the hand John is holding him with grabs Sherlock’s balls and cock, pulling them out of the way and protecting them.

“Ready for your last one, baby?” John asks, and Sherlock nods vigorously, head pressed roughly against the bed and the cheeks on his face as red as the cheeks of his arse.  John can’t wait any longer and he presses his fingers tightly together then aims carefully, bringing his hand down lighter than before, but still with some force.  The hit is perfect, catching Sherlock’s hole and the soft, sensitive part of his perineum, and John can feel Sherlock’s cock _throb_ in his hand as Sherlock cries out.

“Shh, shh,” John soothes, falling down to sit on the bed quickly where he is at and dragging Sherlock into his lap instantly.  “It’s all right, we’re done, you were so good.”  Sherlock practically climbs onto him, his entire body sensitive to John’s every touch after a scene like this.  John’s hand rubs at the tender flesh of his backside to soothe away any lingering aches and stings and Sherlock tries to press his cock against John’s leg, but John stops him.

“Lie back on the bed, baby, and let Daddy look.  I promised I would make it feel better if you were good, remember?”

“I was good, wasn’t I, Daddy?” Sherlock asks hurriedly, voice quavering as he moves gingerly to do as John asked.  “You said I was good.”

John smiles, the edges sharp and wicked.  “Yes, sweetheart.  You were very good for Daddy.  And now I’m going to make you feel better, just like I promised.”

Once Sherlock is settled on his back, John kneels between Sherlock’s spread knees.  John pushes the boy’s thighs up towards Sherlock’s chest, exposing his hole once again.  Like this, John can see everything, all of Sherlock.  He can see Sherlock’s swollen, red cock, along with his full, cute bollocks, and his thighs and arse cheeks which are still red and sensitive from his spanking.

John takes a deep breath, holding it in and trying to calm himself to keep from rubbing off against Sherlock’s arsehole right there and ending it all.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he asks instead.  “I love every second that I get to take you apart.”

He leans forward and puts his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks to spread them wider.  He can hear Sherlock suck in a sharp breath as John’s fingers bite into his sore skin, but John doesn’t relent in pressing him open.  He finds the little whorl of skin with his lips, pink and perfect, and smiles against it before licking teasingly at the soft outer edges of Sherlock’s opening.  Above him, he hears Sherlock gasp and he feels Sherlock’s hips buck.  His legs quiver and he makes little sobbing noises that have John’s cock throbbing where it is pressed against the bed.  Sherlock tries to bury his head in the pillows to smother the sounds coming out of his mouth, but John wants to hear him.  He wants to hear Sherlock’s control slipping away piece by piece, and so the tiny teases of tongue and presses of mouth turn into earnest licks now.  John pushes his tongue against Sherlock’s hole and licks over it, feeling each ridge, circling the tip of his tongue around it, trying to gain access into the muscle that has already been loosened by John’s earlier fingering. 

Sherlock curses and tries to spread his legs even wider now, although it is impossible at this point.  All he can do is push back against the intrusion each time John’s tongue makes a pass over his entrance, trying to breach him.  His hips are moving like he is trying to fuck himself on John’s mouth, and John can feel the muscle of his entrance, which is already softened somewhat from its earlier stretching, soften even further and start to give way beneath his tongue.  He presses just the tip of his tongue inside the slick passage, wet with his saliva, and feels Sherlock shudder and jerk, cursing and shouting out.  John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, holding him still, pressing him into the mattress, as he grins and nuzzles his face in between Sherlock’s bright red arse cheeks.  He continues licking and sucking until his jaw aches and spit covers his mouth and chin, and Sherlock’s hole is so soft and loose that John fumbles around blindly for the bottle of lube rolling around the bed.  He finds it and slicks his fingers once again before pressing one into Sherlock’s body where it is easily sucked in, and then he pulls out and pushes two back in, just to be sure. 

Against his hands, Sherlock is mindless, writhing and panting and cursing.  John doesn’t usually let him use bad words when they are playing, but right now he can’t stop himself from surging up Sherlock’s body and smashing their mouths together.  He wants to taste Sherlock’s words, he wants to feel the sharp shape of them against his own lips.  He thinks it is wholly unfair that Sherlock’s mouth is all the more addicting and still tastes like heaven even when filth is coming out of it.

Into the kiss, Sherlock makes a broken noise, a small moan that is part arousal, part frustration, part agony.

“Daddy,” Sherlock says in warning, the sound torn from his throat on a groan.  Hearing Sherlock’s tone of voice, John suddenly knows what is about to happen.  Sherlock is too close to the edge, very near to coming.  He could very well come untouched, unable to last a moment longer, which means that he will end up disobeying John, who likes to tell Sherlock when he can come.  John knows that this could very likely send Sherlock careening into a bad state of mind, upset with himself for not following his Daddy’s rules, possibly also guilty and filled with shame, as well.  All things which John tries to avoid when they are playing.  This happens every so often, though, when Sherlock needs John to take care of him, when Sherlock needs his Daddy to make everything better yet ends up fighting his feelings, hiding from them, pushing the need away, trying to mask whatever pain he is feeling.  When he finally gives himself up to John, he finds himself on the edge too soon, and if he lets his control slip he ends up blaming himself.  John has learned to see all the signs, and to fight them.

“There, there, sweetheart, shh.  We’re all done with the teasing now,” John promises, his hands coming up to comb through Sherlock’s sweat-slicked hair.  He looks Sherlock in the eye and places a soft kiss in the middle of his forehead.  “You did so well for me, I’m so proud of you.  I think you deserve a reward now.”  He presses his stiff, aching erection up against Sherlock’s hip.  It has not flagged since he began Sherlock’s spankings and it is grown almost painful in his need.  “Do you want Daddy’s cock?  Do you want to be fucked?  Do you want to come, baby?” John asks, voice soft and gentle as he presses his cock harder into Sherlock’s flesh.

“Yes, please.  _Please, Daddy_.”

Sherlock begs so nicely, John can’t possibly resist giving in.  John knows he spoils Sherlock already, but when John is his Daddy he seems to never be able to tell him no.

“All right,” John says, giving Sherlock a happy smile.  “Come up here, on Daddy’s cock.”

Sherlock scrambles to obey, sitting up hurriedly.  He is in John’s lap almost before the man is even able to sit back against the headboard, settling himself over John’s cock and sliding down it, still loose from John’s fingers earlier and his mouth, and so, so impatient.

“Oh, Christ.  Sherlock.  That’s…”

Sherlock makes a small keening noise as he slides slickly all the way down, almost too fast in his haste.  Judging by the look on his face and the small sounds coming from him, John’s cock finds the right spot inside of him almost immediately in this position that he loves.

“That’s it, right there,” John pants into Sherlock’s neck, nipping at the sweaty skin under his teeth.  “That’s the spot, yeah?”

Sherlock bites his lip and nods, eyes slamming shut as he rolls his hips in a movement that takes John’s breath away.  He has to force himself not to come right then and there, with Sherlock riding him, all inhibitions gone, nothing but wild abandon as Sherlock finds a rhythm and sets the pace that he wants.  One of Sherlock’s hands slips in between their bodies and jerks at his cock while the other moves up his chest, touching himself all over, exploring what feels best for him.  His fingers find their way into his open mouth at one point and John sees his sinful tongue peek out to wet them.  They fall down, dripping saliva, to his chest, where he rubs and pinches at his nipples, making them wet and red and puffy.  It is all John can do not to lean forward and put his mouth on them after that.  John wants to touch him, so badly, but he doesn’t want to disturb the beautiful image of Sherlock taking his pleasure, losing control and finding what he needs in John.

Instead, John stares up at him unblinkingly, not wanting to miss a moment of this.  He thrusts his hips up to meet Sherlock’s in a mind-numbingly perfect rhythm, but his eyes never leave Sherlock’s face, mesmerised by what he sees.

Above him, Sherlock’s head is tilted back, his long neck is exposed and his mouth is slightly open as he pants for air while John fucks the most obscene noises out of him.  He is writhing on John’s lap, jerking himself off against John’s stomach as he grinds himself down on John’s cock with each thrust of his hips.  Sherlock takes what he wants from John’s body unashamedly, completely lost in the sensations that John has given him, in what is happening. 

This is Sherlock, John looks on in wonder, who believes in self-control and intellect and dignity in all things, coming apart on John’s lap.

Suddenly, while John is looking at him, Sherlock’s head falls forward and John can tell by the tensing muscles under his hand and the difference in the movement of his hips that Sherlock is close.  He pushes Sherlock’s hand off of his cock and starts stroking him while he continues to fuck him, rubbing his thumb over the head in the way he knows Sherlock likes. 

Before too long, Sherlock is slamming his eyes closed and whimpering, “Daddy, going to come.”

John has just enough time to nod his head vigorously and say, “Yeah, baby, come one,” before Sherlock is arching his back, pushing roughly into John’s hand as he shouts out and comes across John’s belly and chest _._   John thinks it is the most amazing thing ever, to get to hear Sherlock’s little hitching, huffing cries of pleasure perfectly timed with the gentle jerks of John’s hand and the thrust of his cock as Sherlock’s orgasm takes control of his body.  On the sides of John’s belly, Sherlock’s fingers are holding tightly, having clamped down on him at the start of his orgasm.  Now, Sherlock grips him harshly as he continues to make tiny little movements on John’s cock, milking out the last of his orgasm with no suggestion of control or dignity any longer, only need and pleasure.  It’s the most arousing, endearing thing John has seen, and his heart flutters at the sight of it.

“That’s my good boy,” he tells Sherlock as they continue to move together, tiny little sounds of desperation still being pulled out of Sherlock’s throat with each jerk of his hips.  “Shh, Daddy’s here for you.”

Sherlock makes the most beautiful, broken, inhuman sound as he comes apart in John’s arms, and the man just cradles him tighter, holding Sherlock like he is the most precious thing in the world.  John fucks him gently through his orgasm, careful not to overstimulate him, right on the razor’s edge himself.  It isn’t until Sherlock’s orgasm ends and he whimpers and turns his face to hide in the crook of John’s neck that the man tips over uncontrollably, the pull of his orgasm too hard to keep at bay for a second longer.  He groans against Sherlock’s hair and buries himself deep, feeling Sherlock gasp against his shoulder as John settles into his body and they both feel him come.

When John can feel his limbs once again and has managed to get his breath back a bit, he pulls himself away from Sherlock slightly to take stock of them.  Everything between them is wet and sticky, but in the best way possible.  The smile on Sherlock’s face makes him look so young, so happy and carefree, so _taken care of_ , that John’s heart nearly swells to bursting with contentment.  Sherlock reaches out a hand to the depths of their tangled sheets and his fingers find his bee, threading through its wings once again.  John hadn’t even noticed when Sherlock had let go of the thing.  Despite being covered with sticky, drying come, Sherlock drags his toy over to hug it tightly to his chest, his eyes slipping closed and letting out a little hum of satisfaction so quiet John almost doesn’t hear it.

In that moment, watching his adult lover hug a ridiculously-smiling bee soft toy, John has the strongest feelings of protectiveness and possessiveness he thinks he has ever felt for Sherlock, outside of jealousy.  Even stronger than the very first time that he had seen Sherlock beaten bloody by his alcoholic father and John had taken him to hospital, back before they had become romantically involved with each other.  Back when Sherlock was still just his student and John was just his teacher, and Sherlock was running to him for help from his abusive drunk of a father.  What he feels now, though, is even stronger than that; it is a deep-seated desire to protect Sherlock from everything and anything, because Sherlock is his now, whereas he wasn’t before.  Sherlock trusts John, and he looks to John for care and guidance now.

These feelings are ridiculous, he knows, because John is aware that Sherlock isn’t some damsel in distress.  The child grew up in an abusive home for ten years without a mother, without anyone taking care of him the way a child needs to be taken care of.  Sherlock is a fighter.  Sherlock is strong.  Sherlock is probably one of the strongest people John has ever met.  The young man is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, physically and emotionally (even if neither one of those will be in the healthiest of ways).  He doesn’t need coddling and he doesn’t need protecting.  Theoretically.  In a sense. 

On the other hand, though, John knows that these games they play aren’t just because John has a “kink”.  What they do is as much for Sherlock’s benefit as it is for John’s.  John knows that Sherlock lacks a lot of things in his life, and John is able to give Sherlock some of those things in this particular way.  It works out best for both of them, when Sherlock isn’t being stubborn about it.  John understands why Sherlock still feels the need to hold back, though, and that’s where the surge of protectiveness gets stronger.  He just wants to wrap Sherlock up in his arms, hold him close, never let him go, so he settles back against the bedding and opens his arms, a silent invitation.

“All right, now?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips as he continues looking on at Sherlock hugging his bee happily.

Sherlock snuggles into John’s waiting arms, cuddling into the warm embrace as John’s hold automatically tightens around him and the man presses light, wet kisses to every inch of his face that he can reach.  Sherlock giggles and yawns, rubbing his nose back and forth against the skin of John’s neck and making another noise of contentment, which is his way of saying “yes”.

John lets him ride the buzz of his orgasm and his endorphins.  Sherlock always gets delightfully clingy and sleepy after sex, especially when they scene.  Of course, it isn’t like John minds.  He is more than willing to provide whatever aftercare Sherlock needs from him.  Usually that constitutes cleaning his lover up and making sure he is fed and hydrated, and then, if John is lucky, covering him with a warm blanket and cuddling with him until Sherlock drifts off to sleep.  This time, though, when he moves to get up and head off to the loo for a wet flannel, Sherlock only tightens his hold on John, pressing deeper into the crook of John’s neck and breathing him in.  He rubs his face against John, nosing along his cheek, neck, and collar bone, all while humming in happy contentment.  John’s eyes slip shut and he subtly shifts his head to offer more of himself for Sherlock to nuzzle. 

“Don’t go,” Sherlock whispers into his skin.  His words are more of a demand than a request, but the tone of his voice is so gentle and beseeching that John knows he is still on the edges of his headspace, still in need of John.  “Hold me just a bit longer.  Don’t let go of me, please.”  

John is slightly surprised by Sherlock’s neediness for a moment, but then his expression of slight shock quickly melts into a warm smile, one which Sherlock can’t see with his face pressed into John’s sweaty skin the way that it is, so the man figures he is safe from Sherlock’s wrath.  He lets his hand come up to run fingers sleepily through Sherlock’s tousled curls, petting this boy in his arms who isn’t fragile but who is so easily broken.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he whispers into the crown of Sherlock’s head, placing a kiss there which gets lost in the wild tangles.

Sherlock’s legs twist in John’s for a moment and his bee gets lodged between their bare chests.  Thighs and soft skin and wings all rub together distractedly in a way that makes John almost miss the words when Sherlock says, soft and low, “You’re marvellous, John.  And I don’t deserve you.”

John frowns because that isn’t true at all.  John would like to point out that it is, in fact, Sherlock who is marvelous.  It is Sherlock who is beautiful, and wonderful, and selfless, and caring, and the most amazing lover, an absolute sex-God, and it is John who doesn’t deserve Sherlock.  John still wonders to this day how he got to be lucky enough to have Sherlock in his life.

“I think you’ve got that a little backwards, baby, but that’s all right.  After you wake up, we’ll show you how wrong you are.”

Sherlock looks up at him then, a sharp lift of his head, as if John’s words are surprising to him.  He stares at John for a long, quiet moment, his kaleidoscope eyes boring in, deducing once again now that the haze of passion and his headspace are gone.  John lets him, doesn’t hide anything from him.  He lies back and lets Sherlock read what he wants from him, because he doesn’t try to hide a single thing from Sherlock anymore.  It would be pointless, anyways.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, John.”

John has to be honest with himself: it is scary to hear Sherlock admit something like that to John.  It is even scarier to see a flicker of something like fear, something wet and wavering shine in Sherlock’s eyes as he speaks. 

John knows Sherlock depends on him for a lot, but he also knows that Sherlock is one of the most independent, self-sufficient people alive. Who else could have grown up the way he did and not need anyone to look after them?  Who else could have done the things Sherlock had to do to survive his childhood and still come out so magnificent on the other side?

Sherlock may depend on John for a lot of things, but there is no doubt in John’s mind that the teen is still just as independent as he was when John first met him.  That look is still in Sherlock’s eye, though, and John hates it.  So to soothe it away, he cups Sherlock’s face and kisses him softly, whispering against his mouth, “You’d manage, because I know you’re strong,” John says with conviction.  Then adds, “But it doesn’t matter in the end, because you’re never going to have to find out, love.”

Sherlock smiles softly at that, the curve of his lips gentle against John’s mouth.  He falls asleep not long afterwards with his new soft toy tucked in tight under his arm, caught in between John’s chest and his own.  Dr. Barium looks on them continuously with black, jealous eyes from the bedside table where John had lovingly placed him earlier, unhappily ousted out of his coveted spot in the bed.

John figures Sherlock’s obsession with his bee is just a one-night thing, a small phase that Sherlock is going through because he has something new to play with.  He is sure that, come the light of dawn, the bee will be long forgotten, thrown in a corner of the room somewhere to be picked up by John and put away until the next time Sherlock feels like playing. 

However, John is surprised the next day when his little boy greets him first thing in the morning.  Sherlock is so delighted over his gift that he stays in his headspace for the rest of the weekend, ordering John to drizzle honey over everything he eats and not letting go of his bee the entire time they play.


	2. Chapter 2

A certain domesticity begins to fall over their scenes quickly, something which John notices but doesn’t know exactly how to deal with.  It was bound to happen, as overboard as John was going with everything.  Still, it is strange to know that at the end of a scene, once everything is packed away and put up, they have to go on living with one another, continue seeing each other now.  They don’t get to slip away from one another and hide from what has just transpired between them for a day or two, until they are ready to face each other again, until the slight embarrassment that still lingers around their scenes ebbs away.  This is a new part of their relationship, and they have to get used to it, now.

Something else they must get used to is the normal, everyday pitfalls of new relationships, learning how to live in such close confines with each other and their bad habits.  John has never liked the fact that Sherlock wanders about at all hours of the day and night, going to and fro with no regard for anyone, and that he doesn’t eat or sleep regularly.  He had mostly not liked these things because they were detrimental to Sherlock’s own health, but when John begins sharing a flat with him, he finds that he doesn’t like them for a whole different reason.  Sherlock’s inconsistent comings and goings are most inconvenient as a flatmate—not to mention a boyfriend—and the fact that he doesn’t eat for days and then raids the fridge is frustratingly annoying when John tries to cook a meal large enough for the two of them, only to have too much food on his hands that ends up spoiling.  It is not helped along by the fact that he will think they have enough groceries to last them a few more days, only to find that Sherlock has decided to eat, finally, after a days-long fast, and there will be no food left in the flat at all. 

The worst—and best—thing, though, are the nights when Sherlock stays home and can’t sleep.

He plays the violin.

John never knew he played the violin.

The first night John had heard it, he thought it was a recording, or something on the radio.  When he had walked out of their bedroom and seen Sherlock with the instrument pressed to his shoulder, he had been stunned.  In all of their moving, all of John’s unpacking and tidying of the flat after they moved in, he had never once seen anything even remotely resembling an instrument case.  Although, he had vaguely recalled something similar in Sherlock’s room back home, old and battered and beaten-looking where it had been used to prop up the broken sideboard of a bookshelf.  He had crept out of their bedroom and to the edge of the hallway, standing by the entryway into their sitting room and trying to be invisible so that he didn’t disturb the scene unfolding before him.

Sherlock had been a vision as he played the violin.  He had swayed with the music that flowed out of him naturally, and the sounds that he had made the instrument produce had been beautiful and vibrant.  Sherlock’s eyes had been closed and he had looked happy in a way that John had only seen when he was “little”.  He had been stunning.

John must have ended up making some sort of sound unconsciously, because Sherlock had turned to him suddenly, whipping around and dropping the instrument to his side as if he had been caught doing something naughty.  He hadn’t resumed playing, just as John suspected he would.  He had just stood there, looking at John through wide, unreadable eyes.  John wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily, though.

“I didn’t know you played.”

“Mmm,” is all the response he got as Sherlock fiddled with the instrument, looking as if he had been torn between putting it back in its case and putting it back to his shoulder.  His long fingers had caressed the neck of it, sliding over the delicate strings with care, and John had wondered how long it had been since he had last played it.  It hadn’t sounded like it had been too long ago to John, but the man knew that didn’t mean anything when it came to Sherlock Holmes.  The kid was practically a prodigy.

“When did you stop?” John had asked instead, trying a different tactic.  He had come into the sitting room and had fallen into his chair, thinking about making a detour to the kitchen for tea but not wanting to miss out on an opportunity to hear more if Sherlock was feeling benevolent.

Sherlock had frowned down at the violin in his hands, not looking at John, as if it had been the instrument who had asked such probing questions and not the man.  He had answered, though, despite his voice sounding small and cracked.  “When my mother left.  She was the one who taught me, she was the one who loved it.  My father hated it.  He didn’t like hearing it.  It reminded him of her.  After he started drinking, there was no way I was going to play it when he was in the house.  And then even when he would leave to go to the pub…what was the point of playing it?”

John had been silent for a moment because he hadn’t really known what to say to that.  He had suspected that Sherlock might be lying about not playing even while his father was gone; the way he had caressed the instrument spoke of a deep love which John thought couldn’t have withstood ten years apart.  After a minute or two, Sherlock still hadn’t put up the violin and it became clear to John that he hadn’t wanted to, not really.  So John took a chance.

“Want to play something for me?” he had asked, voice hopeful.

Sherlock’s head had shot up to look at him then, his stare incredulous.  But when he saw that John wasn’t taking the piss he slowly nodded, bringing the violin up to his shoulder and positioning it.

“Wonderful,” John had said, grinning happily.  “Go ahead and start, love.  It was beautiful,” he had stated reassuringly as he had gotten out of his chair and headed towards the kitchen, intent on making a strong cup of tea; he planned on being up for a long time, if it really had been years since Sherlock had last touched his instrument.  Even if it hadn’t, John had been sure that Sherlock hadn’t had an audience in a long time.  “I’ll make us some tea; I’d like to sit and enjoy a nice cuppa while I listen to you play.”

He had grinned at the deep red blush that had stained Sherlock’s cheeks at his words as he stopped to give Sherlock a little kiss on his way to the kitchen.

Then, of course, there are the experiments.  God, the experiments….

John knew that Sherlock liked to do scientific research into all sorts of things in his own bedroom while the boy lived in his own home back in the town John had first met him in, and John had loved that about him.  The man had thought it was brilliant that Sherlock had a love of science and an insatiable curiosity for all things.  However, John hadn’t expected to have to share his bloody kitchen with bio-hazardous material and chemical waste, not to mention actual human body parts.  _Human body parts_ , for Christ’s sake.  Where they keep the frozens!  It’s all a bit ridiculous, if you ask John, and not exactly what he had been expecting when he moved in with his young lover.

Of course, John knows he is no treat to live with, either.

Sherlock had told him many times in the past that John has control issues, and he is well aware that he has a temper.  He tries hard not to let these things show through in his everyday life, especially in his relationship with Sherlock, he swears he does.  But sometimes the kid just makes it so damn _hard_.  He always knows how to set John off, but he always knows exactly what to do to quell John’s anger, too.  It is disconcerting, to say the least.

Sometimes they are small things, like when the two are out doing the shopping and John ends up rowing with the chip and pin machines again.  He always gets quite worked up after that happens, annoyed and frustrated, and he is usually in a foul mood.  All it takes is a look from Sherlock, though, a gentle touch and a barely audible “Daddy,” murmured on a breath before John is forgetting everything that happened and attending to any of Sherlock’s needs.  He knows that sometimes Sherlock does it just to get John out of his mood, and that is fine with John.  He isn’t ashamed to say that that word, spoken by Sherlock, is like a reset button, clearing away any of the day’s problems and making everything that isn’t Sherlock just disappear.

Other times, the problems are much larger, though, and harder to make disappear with just that simple word, though Sherlock certainly tries.

One such problem occurs not too long after they move in to Baker Street.  They have been in London for a few weeks now, and Sherlock is still keen on roaming the streets at odd hours, getting a feel for the new city and giving his brain a bit of exercise, as John likes to call it.  Sherlock’s university term has not yet started, and he has far too much time on his hands.  That, mixed with other things—the issues down at the Yard; the fact that John is still working long hours at the clinic which has kept him occupied and unable to devote as much attention to Sherlock as the needy teen would like; the sweltering heat of summer which is doing nothing to soothe anyone’s frayed nerves—is enough to cause the perfect shit storm one evening.  When John gets home from the clinic, he finds that Sherlock has barricaded himself in their bedroom and is refusing to come out.  John tries the doorknob and it turns (Sherlock having broken the lock some time ago while trying out a new set of lock picks), but when he pushes against the door it feels as if something is wedged in front of it.

“Sherlock, for the love of God, one of my patients vomited on me and I had to take the tube during rush hour,” he informs the bratty child who has locked himself in their bedroom, his voice hard and angry.  “This isn’t funny.  Come out of there so that I can change out of these clothes.  Now!” he shouts out, pounding on the closed door once with his fist.

“No,” Sherlock answers him quite simply from the other side of the door.  His voice sounds rather stuffed up.

John sighs and tries to remember to take deep, calming breathes when dealing with Sherlock whenever he’s in a mood.  It doesn’t really help.  “Why the fuck not?” he asks, not quite succeeding in keeping his voice down and his tone even.

“Because you’ll be angry with me,” is Sherlock’s quick response.

“Why on earth would I be angry with you?” John shouts out, exasperated.  And then he thinks about his question.  He narrows his eyes at the closed door suspiciously.  “What have you done?”

“It’s not what I did.  It’s what someone did to me.”

Now John is really frustrated.  He hates when Sherlock talks in riddles.  “What are you on about?  Come on, this isn’t funny anymore, I smell disgusting over here!”

“You’ll be angry once you see my face, and all you’ll want to do is yell at me and lecture me,” Sherlock explains to him, making it easy and taking all of the guess-work out of it.  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, thank you.  And you won’t believe me when I tell you that all I did was tell a rather large officer at the Yard the truth concerning the current whereabouts of his girlfriend while he goes to work every day.”

“Jesus.”  John grimaces, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his need to change long forgotten.  “What happened?  Did he hit you?” he immediately asks.  John is well aware of how things like this usually turn out for the teen.

There is a long pause before Sherlock finally answers in a quiet tone, “He may have.”

No wonder the voice on the other side of the door sounds a bit stuffy; Sherlock probably has tissue paper shoved up his nostrils to stem the flow of blood.  John bites back a sigh by the barest of threads.  He tries to push his annoyance to the side, though, and dredge up the doctor in him, purely professional and clinical.  “Are you hurt?  Is everything still in working order?”  He tries once more to push open the door, but it still feels as if Sherlock has wedged himself against it.

“No, I’m not hurt.  Everything seems to be working just fine,” Sherlock reassures him through the door.

And that seems to be the last straw.  If everything is fine, John doesn’t understand why Sherlock is being so childishly stubborn about all of this.  “Well then move, damn it!” he shouts out, giving the door a kick for good measure.

On the other side of the door, he can hear Sherlock shuffle about.  “I’ll move if you make me a promise before I do.”

John purses his lips, running an impatient hand through his hair.  “I’m not promising you a Goddamn thing!”

Sherlock chooses to ignore him.  “I’ll move away from the door and let you in if you promise that you will behave reasonably once I’ve opened this door.”

John just rolls his eyes at that, safe in the knowledge that Sherlock can’t see him through the door.  “I’m not the one who is behaving unreasonably right now; you’ve locked yourself in our bedroom and are refusing medical treatment.  I’d say that’s pretty unreasonable to me,” John tells him.  He tries to keep his voice level and his tone even, but his patience with this farce is wearing thin rather quickly.

“Is that so?” Sherlock asks him, voice irritatingly mocking from the other side of the door.  “Because it seems to me that a reasonable person would have remembered that there are two doors to this bedroom and used the other one by now, instead of wasting time trying to get into one which is clearly not going to open for him any time soon.”

John stares at the bedroom door, his anger rising and feeling like a tit.  “Goddamn it,” he growls out, stomping towards the bathroom and opening the door, practically lunging for the second door connected to the bedroom from there.

“John, wait—!” he hears Sherlock say from his spot on the floor, struggling to stand as John barrels into the bedroom, but John is done waiting for him.  Sherlock is still on the floor when John enters the room, and the man looks down at him with a stern frown on his face that quickly turns into one of exasperation as he looks at the extent of the damage done this time.

It’s not the first time Sherlock has been beaten for his deductions, and John is sure that it won’t be the last, either.  This time, though, Sherlock’s nose seems to have taken the brunt of it.  John was right—the teen had shoved wads of tissue up his nostrils to stem the flow of blood, and John can see that some spectacular bruising is already taking place around Sherlock’s eyes.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John says as he crouches down in front of him and takes a closer look.  His voice is not unkind, but he lets is disapproval show through clearly, in his tone and in the frown that mars his face, settling into his deep wrinkles.  “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner, or just let me in when I got home?  We could have put ice on it and helped the swelling some.  I could have gotten you a paracetamol, as well,” John gently scolds, raising a hand to brush some of Sherlock’s long fringe out of the way so that he can get a better look at the bruising forming around the delicate, paper-thin skin of his eyelids.  “I don’t understand why you have to be so stubborn about all of this.”

Sherlock looks at him with large, strikingly clear blue eyes.  When John brings a hand up to gently apply pressure to the bones in his face to check for fractures, Sherlock nuzzles into his hand, closing his eyes.  The tips of his eyelashes are wet and have clumped together.  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he whispers into John’s palm.

And that, right there, that name, melts John’s whole demeanor, like it always does.  He puts his arms around Sherlock and hugs the boy, bringing his head gently, carefully, to rest on his shoulder.  John’s anger and his annoyance are forgotten in an instance, pushed out by the reverberation of Sherlock’s voice saying that single word.  He is calmed by it, soothed by Sherlock saying that name like nothing else in his entire life has ever appeased him.  It is instantaneous.  Like some sort of twisted behavioural conditioning. 

“It’s all right, baby,” John whispers into the crown of his head, placing a kiss there.  “Daddy will take care of it and make you all better.  I promise.”

They each relax in the other’s arms because they know that it’s the truth.

*

It is a few weeks after the bedroom incident that John loses Sherlock.

At first the older man doesn’t think much of it.  Sometimes Sherlock wanders out of the flat and won’t come back for a day or two.  That is usually not a big deal.  London is a big place and Sherlock is enjoying his newfound freedom.  John loves that Sherlock has such a free spirit, and he doesn’t ever want to do anything that hinders Sherlock’s brilliant mind or creative genius.  He loves Sherlock and wants to be with him, but he doesn’t want to change who Sherlock is, especially not during these important adolescent years when Sherlock is finding himself.

But two days slowly turns into three, and then three days rolls inexorably into four without a single word or text from Sherlock.  By the end of the fourth day, John is at his wit’s end and nervously pacing the sitting room floor of 221b as he fiddles with his mobile phone, debating on sending a text that he knows has the potential to only cause more harm than good.

There is nothing for it, though.  John clearly can’t find Sherlock on his own, and the only other person in all of England that he can possibly go to for help with Sherlock is Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft, when John calls, doesn’t seem surprised at all by his younger brother’s disappearance.  John knows where Mycroft thinks Sherlock has gone off to, but John has more faith in him than that.  John would like to think that the lure of a 7% solution isn’t quite as strong as it once was, now that Sherlock has John in his life.

Still, Mycroft comes over to Baker Street and sends out a small team of assistants to search, as well as having a few more lackeys pour over CCTV footage trailing Sherlock.  However, the teen is sneaky and wise to his older brother’s ways.  They end up losing him after only a few hours and can’t pick up his picture again, no matter how hard they search.

So John can do nothing more than sit at home and expect the worst while he prays for the best, even though he’s never been much of the praying sort except for in the most dire of circumstances ( _“Please, God, let me live”, “Please, God, don’t let me fuck this up and lose him”_ ).

Sherlock finally stumbles into 221b on the fifth day, looking like a right mess, as if he has been hit by a lorry and dragged a few blocks.  John can tell by the set of Mycroft’s shoulders and the unhappy drop of his mouth that the elder Holmes knows right away what is wrong.  John suspects as well, but he doesn’t want to believe it.  They had been doing so well, they were _happy_.  Why would Sherlock—

“You’re high,” Mycroft says sharply, apropos of nothing, into the thick silence that has descended upon 221b as soon as Sherlock stumbles into the sitting room through the door of the flat, his words making John wince.

“You’re fat,” Sherlock responds immediately, not looking at John, “and you’re in my flat.”  He narrows his eyes and sways dangerously on his feet, gripping the door for support.  A part of John wants to go to him to help steady him but a bigger part of him is afraid that if he does, he’ll do something he’ll regret.  “Why are you in my flat?”

John clenches his fists and stays right where he’s at, across the sitting room, feet shoulder width apart, mouth set in a stern line.  “I called him, Sherlock,” he says flatly.  “You’ve been gone for five days.  Where the hell have you _been_?” John asks, voice rising to almost hysterical notes.  “A text would have been nice.  Or better yet, a call.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock looks properly chastised.  “I’m sorry, John,” he says, surprising the man.  “I had just meant to wander around London for a bit.  B-but then I met some people—they were homeless—and we started talking.  They showed me easier ways to get around London and introduced me to more people, p-people like them.”  He is talking too fast, his mouth barely keeping up with his words, and he seems to be on edge.  John’s seen him behave this way before, but Sherlock had been severely sleep deprived at the time, almost hysterical with it, so a part of John is still holding out hope that this isn’t what it looks like.  “I t-thought it might be useful someday—”

“Your arm, Sherlock, if you please,” Mycroft cuts him off, sounding almost bored, as if he’s gone through this ordeal too many times now to be affected by it.  The whole thing makes John sick to his stomach.

Sherlock’s right hand automatically goes to the crook of his left arm, covered by his dirty shirt sleeve.  He turns bruised-looking eyes to John, the panic evident in them, and says, “John, I—”

“Show us,” is all John says.

Sherlock hangs his head in resignation, dirty fringe falling into his face, and he rolls up his shirt sleeve.  He doesn’t have to say anything, the evidence stares them right in the face: bruised and puckered skin, veins blown and blossoming in bright ugly colours underneath pale flesh in a trail of marks along the delicate skin of his inner elbow.

“Shit,” John manages to mumble even though it feels like the air has been punched out of him.

“Mycroft wasn’t supposed to be here!” Sherlock shouts out for some reason that John can’t fathom, dropping his shirt sleeve to cover his arm.  John can’t wrap his head around what is going on.  None of it makes any sense.  “I came home, John,” Sherlock is explaining to him; it doesn’t help the man’s confusion.  “I came back to you.  I’m sorry that I used again, it was a mistake, but I came home instead of staying away and trying to hide it!  I didn’t mean to be gone for so long, and I didn’t want to stay away for any longer.  I wanted to be home with you, so I came back.  You see that, don’t you?”  He moves towards John, but he is so unsteady on his feet that he makes it most of the way across the room and then all but falls into the blond.  It doesn’t seem to matter to him, though, because he grips John’s shirt tightly, clinging to him, a slight tremor already evident in his hands.  “I came back to you,” Sherlock repeats, his voice and the look in his eye both desperate and yearning.

“Sherlock…” John doesn’t know what to say.  He puts his hands around Sherlock’s upper arms, trying to lift him away.  He doesn’t know if he wants to hug Sherlock, push him back, give him to Mycroft, make him leave…

“Mycroft wasn’t supposed to be here when I got back to the flat,” Sherlock is whispering wetly to him, his eyes wavering in the light of the sitting room as he stares wildly at John.  “I was going to come in and tell you everything, I wasn’t going to lie, I swear.  But I didn’t want to say anything with Mycroft here.  I didn’t want to be sent away again…”

_Sent away again._

The words send a cold chill down John’s spine.

John remembers the rehab facility that Sherlock spoke of infrequently in the beginning of their relationship.  It was in the States.  Mycroft had sent him there.  Still holding Sherlock tightly by his upper arms, away from his body, John turns burning eyes onto the elder Holmes, glaring at him.

The politician is standing in the middle of their sitting room looking composed, as if the scene playing out before him is not effecting him in the slightest.  Mycroft stares steadily at Sherlock when he states quite frankly, “I told you that the next time you relapsed you were going away to the rehab facility for much longer.”

Sherlock’s fingers spasm around his shirt.  “John!” the teen shouts out, turning to the man and holding on to him tighter.

John doesn’t look at Sherlock.  He is afraid of what he will see if he does.  Afraid of what he will feel.  He’s never been as angry with Sherlock as he is at this moment, and he realises that a rehab facility is the best place for him.  But John is selfish.  John is so, so selfish, and he knows this about himself.

He levels Mycroft with a hard stare, the kind that commanded troops in warzones.  “He’s not yours to take care of any longer, Mycroft.”  His tone is deceptively calm, and he knows that Mycroft, of all people, will see through it to the threat that lies beneath.

However, it seems that Mycroft won’t give his little brother up without a fight this time.  If the elder Holmes ever did anything as indelicate as scoff, he would have done so then.  John can see something close to a sneer settling on his face.  “It doesn’t seem as though you are doing much better, Dr. Watson.”

John’s jaw clenches and his shoulders tense, but it is the only sign he will let Mycroft see that he has struck a nerve.  “I’m doing a damn sight better than you were,” he tells the other man.  “You can go now.  Thank you for your help, but I’ll handle the rest from here.  Sherlock and I have some things that we need to discuss,” John dismisses him, hoping Mycroft will take the hint and just _leave_.  John doesn’t want to deal with this anymore.  He has other things to get sorted at the moment.

Mycroft, of course, doesn’t take the hint.  He stares at John in slight disbelief for a moment before speaking again.  “John, really, be reasonable.  What will you be able to provide for him that he won’t get at a facility?  I can make sure he has the best care—”

“ _No_.”  The word is sharp and biting, cracking through the air like a gunshot.  It stops Mycroft’s words in an instant, leaving both Holmes brothers staring at him.  “He stays right here,” John asserts once more.  “With me.  I can get a GP from the clinic to start him on a methadone treatment, if that’s what he wants, and we’ll set him up with appointments to see a physician from the surgery regularly so they can monitor him.  I’ll be able to keep an eye on him, too, here at the flat.  If he doesn’t want the methadone, then we can deal with that, also.”  He looks at Sherlock, fidgeting in his hands, slight tremors and an uneasy restlessness already taking hold of him.  “Now, I’m fairly certain that he’s about to go into withdrawals soon, so if you would kindly get the fuck out of our flat so that I can tend to him, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Mycroft doesn’t say anything else, he only moves to finally gather up his suit jacket and umbrella, giving John one more pitying look before he makes his way to the door.  John releases his iron grip on Sherlock to walk his brother out, and Mycroft turns to him when they reach the landing.  He leans in close and whispers, “I sincerely hope you know what you’re doing, Dr. Watson,” before turning right back around and making his way quickly down the steps of 221.

John releases a gusty sigh as he thinks to himself, _I hope I do, too_.  Then he calls out to Mrs. Hudson to see if she has a few extra things in her cupboards.  John hadn’t thought he would need to help anyone suffer through withdrawals this evening, and he feels woefully underprepared.

*

When John makes it back into the flat, the few supplies that Mrs. Hudson had been gracious enough to give him in hand, Sherlock is on the floor of their sitting room.  His back is pressed to the leg rest of their sofa and he is watching John with wide, careful eyes.  John sets down the things Mrs. Hudson gave him on the kitchen table and turns to the teen, looking him over.  Sherlock’s hair is lanky and in desperate need of a wash, and his skin is sallow and almost paper white.  There are dark smudges under his eyes that tell John he hasn’t slept in days, and John can bet good money that he hasn’t eaten, either.

“I’m going to make you soup, something light, and you’re going to eat it,” he tells the boy, turning back around and speaking without looking at Sherlock.  He’s so mad at him that he doesn’t think he could even get the words out if he had to say them to Sherlock’s face.  He begins puttering around the kitchen, getting out pots and pulling out soup cans.  “You’ll probably tell me that you won’t want it, but we’ll both know that’s a lie when the withdrawals start.  I can guarantee you haven’t eaten anything in days, though, so a light soup is all you’re getting, otherwise you’ll be sick.”  His voice is light and conversational, and it sounds robotic and disconnected even to his own ears.  He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, why he keeps talking to fill the awful silence that has settled between them now that Mycroft is gone.

From across the room, he hears Sherlock move, his clothes rustling as the brunet shuffles about, probably trying to find the energy to stand now that the cocaine which has fuelled his system has drained away.  “Daddy—” Sherlock begins in a soft, broken voice, and John’s stomach clenches at the name, bile rising to his throat.

John slams a pot down hard on the kitchen worktop, the noise slicing through Sherlock’s voice.  “No,” John cuts him off harshly, voice like steel.  “You don’t get to say that word and make this all go away, Sherlock.  It doesn’t work like that right now.  Understand?”

Sherlock looks at him with wide, fearful eyes, so dilated that they look almost black from where John is standing.  He hardly even looks like himself and John can’t stand to lay eyes on him for a second longer.  Sherlock nods his head in response to John’s question and John only catches a glimpse of the movement before he is turning away from the brunet.

“I’m sorry, John,” he hears the deep voice say from across the flat, sounding rough with lack of sleep and hard around the edges.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry, Sherlock,” he says, not turning around, his back to the younger male in the sitting room.  “Go lie down in the bed, I’ll bring this to you when it’s done.  Put some towels down underneath you; you’ll probably end up sweating through the sheets later.”  He hears Sherlock get up and leave without another word, dragging his exhausted, weary body across the room and disappearing down the hall to their bedroom.

John lets out a sigh of relief and feels his shoulders sag, glad that he is alone for the moment.  He doesn’t know what the hell he is going to do or how he should be acting around Sherlock.  He doesn’t know what to think.  Everything has been turned on its head, inside out, fucked up.  John’s mind is spinning and everything is happening too fast for him to think clearly.

He is angry.  So fucking angry.  He doesn’t understand how or why Sherlock would do this.  It just doesn’t make any sense.

John wants to cry.  He wants to yell and scream and tear their flat apart.  He wants to take his gun out of his bedside table and shoot every single fucking lowlife that Sherlock has spent the last five days with.

John wants to curl into a ball around Sherlock and ask him why he did this.

He sighs, staring down at the soup that is bubbling, ready to be served.  He wants to do all of those things, so many things, and so much more, but he knows he won’t.  Instead he’ll be a good little doctor, the stoic soldier, and battle through this.

He puts the soup into a bowl and sets it on a serving tray along with a large glass of water.  When he enters the bedroom, some extra sheets tucked under his arm, Sherlock is sitting up in bed.  John can see that he is wearing pyjama bottoms and one of John’s old Army tee’s.  The tremors have already started, as have the restlessness and agitation by the look of it.  John sets the tray down by Sherlock, who goes for the bowl so fast that the doctor is slightly surprised; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sherlock relish the idea of eating quite so much.  He sits there on the edge of the bed while Sherlock eats the entire bowl of soup, and he doesn’t speak a single word.  He doesn’t know what to say, really, so he figures it is for the best.  When Sherlock is done with his meal, bowl drained almost completely and glass of water finished off quickly, John takes it from him, careful not to look at him or touch him.

He gets up to leave awkwardly, meaning only to take the empty dishes back to the kitchen, but in all honesty he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.  Sherlock, though, misreads his movements.  When John gets up, Sherlock reaches out quickly to stop him, wrapping cold, trembling fingers around John’s wrist.

“Wait, don’t go, please,” he begs, voice small.  “Will you stay with me?”

John can’t tell him no.  He had no intention to, anyways.  He sighs and moves the tray down to the floor, taking off his shoes but leaving the rest of his clothes on, wanting to keep some sort of barrier between them.  He wants Sherlock to know that he is not crawling into bed with him to relax and have a cuddle.  No, this most certainly isn’t that.

He sits down on the bed with his back against the headboard, on top of the duvet.  Even though he is trying like hell to keep a certain amount of cold, impersonal distance between them—to show Sherlock how angry John is at his actions—the trembling body seems to ignore John’s attempts at space and snuggles up close to John’s side.  Sherlock tucks one shoulder in tight between the bed and John’s body and throws his loose arm over the man’s stomach, their legs rubbing against one another’s, one pair under the duvet while the other’s is on top.  Sherlock sighs in something that sounds almost like relief and John can’t stand letting him think that this is all okay.  The thought makes his stomach tighten.  So John pulls back, trying to see the younger man’s face, trying to get away.

“You told me you wouldn’t do this again, Sherlock.  Do you remember?  The weekend that we first spent together, the first time I made love to you?”  The words leave a bitter taste on his tongue at the memory of one of the most wonderful times of John’s life, painful to think about during a moment like this.  “You told me that you wouldn’t need this again because you had me now, and I made everything better, and you wouldn’t touch this shit ever again.”

He can see Sherlock wince at the memory, trying to hide in John’s chest, but there is no getting away from this, no running from it.  “John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock tells him again, voice wavering dangerously.  “I couldn’t help it.”

John scoffs at that, the sound harsh and derisive.  “That’s a load of bollocks, and you know it.”

Sherlock begins shivering against him, a different sort of shudder wracking his body than the trembles.  John wraps the blanket tighter around him and pulls the duvet up close to his chin as the chills start up in earnest.  “Why, Sherlock?  Why did you do it?”  The question he doesn’t ask hangs heavy in the air between them.  _‘Wasn’t I enough for you?’_

Sherlock seems to hesitate for only a moment before he answers, his words stinging and painful in their harsh honesty.  “I wanted to know who I could buy from here in London,” he tells John truthfully.  “I wanted to know who I could trust to sell to me, what was safe to use, what was worth spending money on.  I was curious.”  His words are simple, succinct.  “I couldn’t help myself.  I never can, you know that.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  It’s not your fault, though,” he is quick to reassure John, looking up at him.  “You’ve done such a good job taking care of me.  It’s not your fault that I just can’t be helped.  That I’m always going to end up back here, no matter what.  I’ve told you before: I’m broken and I’ll always be broken, no matter how much you try to put me back together.  Just like you, John.  We can’t fix each other completely.”

John stares down at Sherlock in surprise, his dirty head pressed so tightly to John’s chest, as if he is trying to melt into the man.  The child is right, as usual, though it’s something that John has never once stopped to consider.  All this time he has been trying so hard to love Sherlock better, to fill in all of the cracks in Sherlock’s shattered life with the things John thinks he needs.  He has never once stopped to consider the thought that it wouldn’t work, that it was an exercise in futility.  But he can’t resent Sherlock for that because he knows that the brunet is right; there are some things in one’s past that just can’t be erased by a loving hand and a tender touch.  There are some memories and instances that are burned into one’s heart, meant to be carried around for the rest of one’s life.  John has his own scorch marks as proof, ones that Sherlock’s brilliance and Sherlock’s love and Sherlock’s intelligence haven’t touched, despite John’s feelings for him.  The two can only try their best to deal with their pasts as well as they can.  If that means that they have to cling to each other, that Sherlock has to call John “Daddy”, that John has to exert a certain level of control over Sherlock, that they need to feel a specific kind of rush to bond them to one another, then that is what John will do, and he won’t feel guilty for it.  He has come to learn that they are simply two damaged individuals who have never fit into the well-defined lines of convention, and the methods they use to comfort each other and show their love are just as unique as they are.

But that doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with those methods.  And it doesn’t mean that they don’t work, for a time.

“But you do make everything better, John, you do make all the noise go away.” Sherlock is whispering into John’s chest, his voice cracking as he rubs his face across the man’s shirt.  “You make it all stop.  Every time I’m with you.  Every time you hold me.  And I need you to continue to do that.  That’s why I came back to you,” Sherlock tells him, voice full of conviction.  “The drugs don’t make it feel like you do.  Please don’t leave me.  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.  It was stupid, and I was an idiot, and it wasn’t worth it if I lose you,” he is clinging to John desperately, the trembling growing worse now, his hands shaking where they are clutching onto John’s shirt, so badly that he can barely even tighten his fingers.

“Hey now, shh, it’s all right,” John soothes, taking Sherlock’s hands and gently disentangling them from his button down, cradling them tenderly in his own grip before wrapping an arm around the boy and pulling him into a proper hug, not something that is so one-sided. 

Sherlock falls back against John’s chest once more but John holds him this time, lets Sherlock shake and tremble against him.  “I won’t leave you, Sherlock.  I promised you I never would, didn’t I?” he asks, thinking back to the days early on in their relationship, when Sherlock was still so scared of being left, of being abandoned by the people he cared about, just like his mother, just like his brother, just like every person he had known in his life who was supposed to have loved and cared for him. 

John had promised Sherlock that he would never be like that; John had promised that Sherlock would never have to worry about that with him.  Even now, after a stunt like this, John has no desire to leave Sherlock, to let him fend for himself while John goes off and starts his life over with Sherlock as nothing but a distant yet pleasant memory of a past relationship.  The thought doesn’t even cross John’s mind.  It hurts, what Sherlock has done—tears John up inside, makes him want to cry and scream and hurt himself the way that Sherlock is hurting, just so that he can feel the same pain that Sherlock feels—but John doesn’t want to leave Sherlock over it.  Not at all.  He wants to help Sherlock through it, he wants them to get through this, together, and be stronger for it.  He wants to be there for Sherlock, however Sherlock will let him, however Sherlock needs him.

“I’m not going anywhere, love,” he repeats, wrapping his arms tighter around the younger man, holding him closer.  He presses a kiss into the crown of Sherlock’s hair, where he can already feel the tips of his messy curls wet with sweat.  “I’m going to take care of you.  I _want_ to take care of you, and love you, and make you better.  For as long as you’ll let me.  Understand?” he asks.  What he thinks Sherlock has never learned about him, is just how patient John really is when it comes to dealing with the teen.  John has a never-ending well of patience for Sherlock, and that is why he can love him, and care for him, and put up with his stunts without ever considering the thought of leaving him.

Sherlock releases a tiny little moan and furrows his brow in concentration as he tries to focus on John’s face, trying to pay attention to John’s words.  He shakes his head hard, once, dislodging John’s lips, and rubs his eyes in frustration, growling in agitation.

“It’s…getting hard to concentrate,” Sherlock admits embarrassedly.

John gets his arms back around him and rocks him.  “That’s all right.  Just rest.”  He doubts Sherlock will sleep.  He is crashing quickly, and as tired as John _knows_ he must be—the doctor is sure he hasn’t slept for days—no matter how exhausted Sherlock is, the withdrawals will probably keep him from drifting off and actually finding any peace in rest.  John will have to look into asking another physician down at the clinic for a low dose sleep aide as well, just something to keep Sherlock on for a week or two until the worst of the withdrawals are over.  John knows it wasn’t a big relapse, but it certainly was a severe binge.  With Sherlock’s long history of drug use, he doesn’t want to leave anything to chance; he doesn’t want to treat this as if it is just a small bump in the road.  He knows that if they don’t take this seriously, it could potentially lead to other binges, other relapses.  And he won’t let that happen.  He’ll die before he loses Sherlock to drugs or anything else in this world.

“No matter what you do, love,” he whispers into sweat-soaked hair, rocking the thin body back and forth as Sherlock shakes in the protective cradle of his arms, “I’ll always love you.  All right?  Just remember that.  Just remember that you'll always belong to me.  No matter what.”

He can feel Sherlock nuzzle into the crook of his neck, his chapped lips pulling into a small smile against John’s skin as he drifts in and out of consciousness, listening to John’s soothing promises.


End file.
